Medley
by kierlani
Summary: A home for the little ideas that won't become huge stories. A place for my late night insanity fests. T just to be safe. Nothing bad.
1. Sherlock's Many Paperclips

John walked in the flat to see Sherlock sitting on the floor in his pajamas, surrounded by an array of paperclips. He stopped in the doorway, his coat halfway off, his mouth open in shock and confusion.

"Sherlock, what the hell is this? Where did you get all these paperclips?" John slid off his coat and stepped quickly inside. He closed the door in case Mrs. Hudson decided to come up and check on them.

"I found them, and kept them, and decided today I'm going to sort them. Organization is everything, you know. I crave organization." Sherlock didn't look up as he talked, his hands darting everywhere to place the clips in separate piles. "Sit down, you're putting me off."

"I'm putting you- never mind." John sat in his favourite chair. "Also, that can't be true. Nothing in this flat is organized at all. If you 'craved' organization it would be."

"Wrong." Sherlock continued to sort. John waited.

"Care to elaborate?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Well what are you going to do with the paperclips?"

"Put them in separate labeled boxes, place them on a shelf, turn them backwards so I can't see the labels, and forget about them until I need them again. What are you going to do with them?"


	2. Basement Murder

Anderson sat in his basement, lounging on the old couch. He tilted his head slightly to one side, contemplating the object before him.

"Sherlock Holmes." Anderson reached over and picked up the weapon. "With your permission, I'd like to test a theory. What theory, you ask?" Anderson smiled, malice in his eyes. "I'd like to see if you have the ability to die."

Anderson, poised his hand, closing his left eye to aim. He exhaled, and fired. Anderson growled. "Maybe Sally was right. I am bad at darts." Anderson walked upstairs to see what his wife had made for dinner.


	3. The Sun

Sherlock lounged on his couch, his head propped on the armrest. His hands were folded beneath his chin in his signature thinking position. John turned from the kitchen with two cups of Earl Grey and walked over, sidestepping the stacks of books that littered the floor. He placed one by Sherlock's elbow and went to sit in his chair.

"What is it now?" John asked, blowing gently over his tea. It wasn't so much that he wanted to know, but that Sherlock wanted to tell. "What's with all these books?"

"Today is your birthday." Only Sherlock's mouth moved, not a muscle outside it. "I am giving you a birthday present."

"Oh? And what would that be?" John leaned forward slightly. Yesterday Sherlock had come home from the library with all of these books on the most unlikely subjects.

"The Sun is the star at the center of our Solar System. We call it Sol. It consists of hot plasma and magnetic fields. It has a diameter of approximately 1,392,000 kilometers. It is made up of mostly helium and hydrogen. Without it we would die. It helps plants grow and helps us see and keeps us warm and keeps us from drifting aimlessly throughout space. It is hot and if you look at it for too long you could go blind. There. I have knowledge." Sherlock turned his head to stare at me accusingly. John stared back, momentarily stunned.

"Okay. Okay. Anything else?" John smiled a little, anticipating a fountain of facts only astrophysicists bothered to know.

"No, that's it. Happy Birthday." Sherlock turned to glare at the ceiling again.

"Wait, that's it. That's all you learned?" John blinked in confusion.

"I learned that space is vast, seemingly endless, and amazingly boring. Will you return those books for me?" John shook his head and sighed, sipping his tea.

"Yeah, I will."


	4. Cinderella

Sherlock gently stroked his violin, humming Vivaldi's Autumn softly. He closed his eyes and watched the notes move in front of him, his left hand fingering the notes unconsciously. His bow rested by his right arm, untouched. He refused to play until he knew the notes by heart and could play impeccably.

His fingers danced across the strings, tickling them until he could almost hear the joyous sounds bursting from his instrument. "Violino de mio, io vi tesoro senza fine…" he whispered, barely moving his lips.

"What was that?" asked John, reading an Agatha Christie novel in his chair. "Were you speaking Italian?" His head was cocked to the side, in that annoyingly ignorant way. Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, his fingers ceasing their movement, the music halting.

"John…" Sherlock turned his head to give him his best irritated expression. "One, don't interrupt me when I'm playing-"

"You weren't playing, you were only humming to yourself." Sherlock glared.

"One, don't interrupt me. Period. Two, don't ask questions you already know the answer to. Three, get my phone and tell Lestrade that it was the stepmother and her two daughters. I wish him luck with the press conference."


End file.
